“I was annoyed, much annoyed, about a private matter,” the curate proceeded in an even, rather despondent tone. “It is a matter about which I expect I shall presently have to take your opinion. But for the present I am not at liberty to name it. However, I was in trouble, and I foolishly wreaked my annoyance upon the first person I came across.” “That was, unfortunately, myself,” said Lindo, smiling. “It would have been very unfortunate indeed for me, if you were as some rectors I could name,” the curate replied gravely, still with his eyes cast down. “As it is—well, I think you will accept my apology.” “Say no more about it,” answered the rector hastily. There was nothing he hated so much as a scene. “Have a cup of coffee, my dear fellow. I will ring for a cup and saucer.” And, before the curate could protest, Lindo was at the bell and had rung it, his manner almost the manner of a boy. “Sit down, sit down!” he continued. “Sarah, a cup and saucer, please.” “But you were going out,” protested the curate, as he complied. “Only to the post with some letters,” the rector explained. “I will send Sarah instead.” Clode sprang up again, a peculiar flush on his dark cheek, and a glint as of excitement in his eye. “No, no,” he said, “I am putting you out. If you were going to the post, pray go. You can leave me here and come back to me, if that be all.” The rector hesitated, his letters in his hand. He might send Sarah. But it wanted a few minutes only of nine o’clock, and, besides, he did not approve of the maids going out so late. “Well, I think I will do as you say,” he answered, feeling that compliance was perhaps the truest politeness; “if you are sure that you do not mind.” “I beg you will,” the curate said warmly. The cup and saucer being at that moment brought in, the rector nodded assent. “Very well; I shall not be two minutes,” he said. “Take care of yourself while I am away.” The curate, left alone, muttered, “No, you will be at least four minutes, my friend!” and waited, with his cup poised, until he heard the outer door closed. Then he set it down. Assuring himself by a steady look that the windows were shuttered, he rose and, quietly crossing the room, as a man might who wished to examine a book, he stood before the little cupboard among the shelves. Perhaps, because he had done the thing before, he did not hesitate. His hand was as steady as it had ever been. If it shook at all it was with eagerness. His task was so easy and so devoid of danger, under the circumstances, that he even smiled darkly, as he set the key in the lock, at the thought of the more clumsy burglar whom he had detected there. He turned the key and opened the door. Nothing could be more simple. The packet he wanted lay just where he had looked to find it. He took it out and dropped it into his breast-pocket, and, long before the time which he had given himself was up, was back in his chair by the fire, with his coffee-cup on his knee.